


til death do us part

by hotcuppa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22460338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcuppa/pseuds/hotcuppa
Summary: ian got the gun from mickey’s.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 3
Kudos: 162





	til death do us part

**Author's Note:**

> !!!trigger warning!!! for suicidal thoughts/ideation and depictions of mental illness and depression
> 
> this is vaguely set in s6 but obvi its au because their breakup didn’t last love that

ian got the gun from mickey’s. 

mickey doesn’t keep many weapons in the house anymore. not since his first depressive episode, when fiona told him that ian could  _ end up suicidal,  _ in a real low voice like that would keep ian from overhearing her. ian remembers thinking there was no ‘ending up’ suicidal—he already was. and he always is, in a way. even when he’s okay or even when he’s manic, there’s always a small part of him that thinks that maybe life would be easier for everybody if he just…

in any case, mickey had said he was going to hide the knives, and he’d gone through with that. ian generally didn’t have access to any knives, blades, or guns at mickey’s. especially not when he was low. but mickey still kept one gun, just in case. ian knew he would keep one around—it wouldn’t be the milkovich house without some weaponry. he just thought that ian wouldn’t be able to find it. he was almost right, until he wasn’t anymore. 

ian had found it weeks ago, but this is the first time he’s held it. sitting under the L, holding the gun in his right hand and a cigarette in his left, and wondering what unlucky son of a bitch is going to find his body in the morning. probably some cracked out asshole coming back from a bender or some shit. ian thinks about the likelihood of it being frank that’ll find him. 

he turns the gun over in his hand, feels the weight of it. touches his finger to the trigger just to get accustomed. it’s a weighty feeling, knowing how easy and quick it would be. knowing all the control he has right now, just by holding this one piece of goddamn metal in his hand. 

it’s not even that he wants to die, really. of course it becomes about that when he’s low, but he’s not low. at least, he doesn’t think he is. he’d been fine yesterday, and he’d gotten out of bed today, so he thinks he’s okay. but the meds fuck him up so much, he hardly knows his own emotions anymore. maybe he is depressed, and he’s just too fucking numb to realize it. maybe this is the side effect that all of the antidepressant commercials keep warning people about—medication will give suicidal people the energy to finally go through with it. 

but he doesn’t really want to die. he just wants to stop existing. he wants to stop being a burden on his family, and on mickey. he wants to be free of his goddamn life sentence. he doesn’t want to end up like monica, fucking up everything he touches and setting fire to everyone he loves. he doesn’t want to slash his wrists over thanksgiving dinner or abandon six kids and a husband like it never meant shit to him. he doesn’t want to be monica, but he feels more and more like her every fucking day, especially when he remembers the look on debbie’s face when he swung that bat and the look on mickey’s when he broke up with him and—

ian presses the back of his hand against his mouth to suppress a sob. this isn’t about being depressed, and he won’t let it become about that. this isn’t something he’s doing selfishly, he’s doing this because he knows that it’s the only thing that will make everyone’s lives better, save a sudden and miraculous recovery. but that’ll never happen and, well, ian has a lot of fucking control over the first option. 

there’s only one bullet in the chamber. mickey makes sure of that, too. he hides his ammo somewhere that ian never found and never had a need to find. one bullet is enough. he cocks the gun and then leans his head back against the cement, and listens to the train overhead. the same sound he heard from his bedroom window for years, the sound that lulled him to sleep over the whines of police sirens and the sharp sounds of gunshots. 

for a while, he just breathes and thinks about nothing in particular. about mickey mostly, he supposes, but nonsensical things. things he can’t explain, and will never have to. nobody will ever know he thought them, and pretty soon, it won’t matter what the hell he thought. 

he runs his finger over the trigger again, and that’s when he hears the soft footsteps approaching from his left side. he looks to the side, lowering the gun back down to his lap, and finds himself face to face with mickey. 

mickey sighs when he notices ian, and walks closer to him. he stops a safe distance away, though, and then stares down at ian. “when i realized the gun was missing, i knew you took it,” mickey tells him, and ian nods. he knew mickey was smart enough to figure that out. “gotta admit, i thought it would be a lot harder to find your ass. didn’t think you’d pick the L by your house.”

ian shrugs, “and yet you found me.” mickey nods, like  _ of course i found you,  _ and ian finds himself unable to swallow around the weight of that thought. “i wanted my family to be able to find me.”

mickey scoffs. “you serious? you wanted your little sister to be the one to find your dead fuckin’ body? that’s pretty fuckin’ scarring, man.”

“lip would find me. or frank,” ian says, because he doesn’t want to think about debbie, liam, or carl being the one. “lip’s the one out here the most.”

“lip’s your best friend. you think he wants to be the one to find your dead body?”

“no, but… he’d be okay.”

“no, he wouldn’t, man. shut the fuck up.”

mickey sighs again, and then lowers himself onto the grass. it’s wet from the rain a couple hours ago, and ian finds himself smiling as mickey curses about having a wet ass. when mickey notices ian’s smile, he just rolls his eyes and flips ian off. it makes ian’s heart warm a little to know that mickey is still mickey, even when faced with ian and a gun in his hand. 

which, of course, mickey didn’t forget about. 

“you gonna put that shit down?” mickey asks, nodding towards the gun. when ian simply turns it over in his hand again, resolutely avoiding mickey’s gaze, mickey hums. “okay. what do i have to do to get you to put the fucking gun down?”

“mickey, this isn’t about—”

“i don’t care what it’s about, gallagher,” he snaps, and it’s the first little bit of panic that ian’s heard from him since he approached. ian can’t help but admire his resolve. “all i fuckin’ care about right now is getting that gun out of your goddamn hand. and  _ then _ we can talk about what the hell is wrong with you.”

ian snorts, “too much.”  _ too much is wrong with me. that’s the problem, isn’t it? _

he can tell from mickey’s expression that he’s reliving that moment, too. a stab of guilt hits ian’s heart, and he tightens the grip on the gun. if he kills himself, he’ll never hurt mickey again. ever. 

“i love you.”

ian laughs a little, and then sniffles. mickey had said that, too. way back when. “i’m not going to ask you what that means,” ian tells him. “i know what it means. i just… it isn’t about that. i know you love me. i love you, too. but it isn’t about that.”

“then what’s it about?”

“thought you didn’t care.”

“of course i care, man.” a pause. “and i know— i know nothing’s  _ wrong  _ with you, i didn’t mean it like that. i’m just scared out of my fuckin’ mind right now.”

ian nods. he gets that. “everyone’s scared of something. you know what i’m scared of?” he looks up at the L, and hopes for the train to go by again. “when i was little, i used to be scared that this was gonna collapse. now, though, i guess i’m mostly just scared of me.”

“of you?”

“mhm,” ian hums. “sometimes it’s like i don’t even know who i am. and when i stare in the mirror, all i can see is her.”

mickey doesn’t have to ask who she is. he knows. 

“you’re nothing like her.”

ian finally looks over at mickey. “don’t bullshit me. i’m exactly like her.” he looks back up at the L, and pretends he didn’t notice that mickey was using ian’s averted attention to scoot closer and closer. “did i ever tell you about thanksgiving?”

“kind of.”

“everything was fine. she was depressed, but frank managed to get her to sit at the table. she never took her fuckin’ meds, no matter how bad shit got. and then she just got up and went into the kitchen, and that’s when we found her. blood just pouring out of her wrists, and fiona had to clean it up afterwards. i don’t want to do that to any of you.”

“then put the gun down.”

“even when i don’t want to be like her, i still go out of my way to pull the same shit.” he waves the gun around, sees the way mickey flinches like he wants to reach for it. “but it’s to avoid all the other shit. so you guys don’t have to deal with my episodes and everything. all monica ever did was fucking hurt people. i don’t wanna do that.”

mickey’s so close now that ian feels his hand come to rest on his knee. he stares at it like he can burn a hole through mickey’s flesh if he focuses hard enough. “you are not monica, ian. look at me. ian, look at me.” so ian does. “you’re not monica. you don’t hurt people, you’re not a burden. we all just want to take care of you, because we love you. and i know it fuckin’ sucks sometimes, but that’s what love is. love fuckin’ sucks sometimes. but you don’t get to pussy out of it and decide that we don’t get to love you anymore. that’s our fuckin’ decision. and i’m not fuckin’ done loving you, gallagher, so give me the goddamn gun.” he bites his lip, and then adds on, “please.”

ian looks over at the gun once, thinks about what could’ve been, and then drops it into mickey’s open palm. mickey doesn’t hold it for long, just tosses it out into the grass and then pulls ian in for a hug so tight that ian can’t breathe around it. the numbness goes away with the warmth of mickey’s embrace and he finds himself crying, pressing his face into the crook of mickey’s neck. 

mickey just holds him, rubs his back and rubs his hair, and ian feels himself collapsing from an unseen weight. maybe he really is in a low point. maybe that’s why it was so easy for him to give in. like he said, he doesn’t really want to die. not tonight. 

he realizes, distantly, that mickey might have to carry him back home, because he doesn’t know if he has the energy to walk. 

“i’m sorry,” ian hiccups. “i’m so sorry.”

“shut up, man. you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” mickey chastises. “just don’t ever pull that shit again, okay? i don’t give a fuck what’s going on in your head, okay, you can’t scare me. just talk to me next time you feel like this, man. and i’ll— i’ll figure something out. we can talk about it, or watch a movie, or cuddle, or i can ride you into the goddamn mattress until you can’t think. just don’t— you can’t— i  _ need _ you.”

“it won’t happen again,” ian whispers. “i promise.” they both know it’s a lie. ian will hit a low again, and he’ll be suicidal again. like he said before, he’s always suicidal in some capacity. 

“if it does, you tell me,” mickey orders, because he knows ian’s promise is empty. not that it’s ian’s fault. his mind is always trying to play the worst tricks on him. “okay? because i’m not done with your pasty ass yet.”

ian nods, buries his face in mickey’s shoulder as he slows his tears. “i love you.” 

“come on, let’s go to bed. i wanna get out of these fuckin’ clothes anyway, the ground made my ass wet.”

ian manages a small laugh, which makes mickey smile. he doesn’t have to tell mickey that he doesn’t feel good enough to walk—mickey just seems to know, and scoops ian up to carry him to the gallagher house. 

“there better not be any knives and shit in there,” mickey snaps, as they make it through the door. “i spent weeks baby proofing my place for your ass, i don’t need to do it again.” they climb the stairs slowly but surely, and ian presses his face further into mickey’s chest. 

“you’d do it if i needed you to,” ian teases, perhaps a bit belatedly because his mind feels like molasses, as they cross into his bedroom. 

carl and liam are fast asleep, blissfully unaware they almost lost a brother. 

not almost, ian corrects himself. he didn’t want to die tonight. he just wanted to think about it for a while. 

mickey sighs dramatically, dropping ian onto the bed. “yeah, yeah. go to sleep, asshole.” ian smiles somehow, and it grows when mickey slips out of his clothes and slides into bed next to him. “oh, and uh. i love you, too.”


End file.
